


Lies and Lullabies

by Nary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Babies, Coitus Interruptus, F/M, Guilt, Infidelity, Lactation Kink, Master/Servant, Nipple Play, Nurses, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ned thought of it as 'the child' because it had no name yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies and Lullabies

Ned thought of it as 'the child' because it had no name yet. Lyanna hadn't chosen one, or if she had, she'd had no chance to tell him of her wishes. Perhaps she'd have called it Rhaegar, he thought miserably. He could at least be thankful that it had a full head of dark hair instead of telltale silver - that would have been even more difficult to explain. It would be a Snow, that much at least he knew, but no appropriate given name had yet come to him.

At first he was terrified at the thought of carrying a baby from the shore of the Summer Sea to Winterfell. He knew little of infants, and was uncertain what they might eat if they weren't nursing. He had visions of stopping at every farm along the way for goat's milk and trying to spoon it into the tiny mouth, of somehow cradling the baby in one arm while he tried to ford rivers and climb mountains. But fortunately the wetnurse - a small, brown-haired woman by the name of Wylla - was able to come with them, if he would pay her fees. Ned heaved a sigh of relief and secured a donkey for her for the long journey. It would slow their pace, but not as much as it would if she walked, and certainly not as much as it would if Ned had to be bothering with the child himself.

Wylla, for her part, seemed to know her trade well. She travelled light, only a few possessions of her own in a woven basket, with the baby swaddled, strapped to a carrying board, and slung on her back. Ned had feared at first that she would want to stop often in order to feed or change the child, and so was pleased to see her simply swing the board around to the front and draw open her mantle when the need arose - the child rarely cried, but he supposed she must be able to sense somehow when it was hungry. Her gown had slits at the front to let her nurse without unlacing it, and she made no fuss about the business. The only delay she caused was occasionally stopping to collect soft moss and bulrushes, which she would shred for their fluffy seeds. She unwrapped the baby each evening and cleaned it quickly and efficiently, replacing the soiled lining with fresh. Despite himself, Ned was impressed with her skill, because he knew he wouldn't have been able to handle it so calmly.

At first, he only spoke to her when it was necessary. "We'll stop here," or, "We'll take the left-hand road," or, "Water?" was about the extent of their conversation. Her presence was a constant reminder to him of what was lost. It should have been his sister caring for the child, not a low-born stranger. At other, darker moments, he would think that the baby should never have been born - its getting had started a war, its birthing had taken his sister from him. He knew it was hardly the child's fault, but the thoughts kept coming unbidden. It should have been Robert's son. Robert would make a wonderful father for a boy, all hunts and laughter and adventures; he doubted whether he could possibly do as well.

When Wylla did speak to him, she was plain-spoken and blunt, which suited him well enough. He would have grown frustrated with a servant who was too deferential, always bowing and scraping to him, or worse, a chatterer who wanted to converse the entire trip. Twice she spoke up to tell him in no uncertain terms that they were going the wrong way, and both times she was proven correct. Most of the time they rode in silence, awkward at first, but increasingly companionable. By the fire at night, he would listen to her singing the baby to sleep, and oftentimes would drift off himself, soothed by her voice. It wasn't beautiful, not like the minstrels who performed in lordly halls, but husky and gentle. The songs she knew were not the Northern ones his own nurse had sung to him; they felt warmer, somehow, as befitted her southerly homeland. But in some ways, lullabies are all alike - they told of peace and safety and a mother's arms. _Enjoy the lies while you can,_ he told the child, _the world will be cold and cruel soon enough._

Ned thought sometimes about the babe his own wife was carrying. He'd been surprised to received the raven with news of her pregnancy, for they had had so little time together before he'd left that it seemed unlikely she would have gotten with child. But he had dutifully written back to tell Catelyn how pleased he was, and to tell her that if the baby should prove to be healthy, and a boy, she should name it Robb, but that if it was a girl, she might choose a name she liked. Not all husbands would give their wives that discretion, but the truth was that Ned couldn't think of a suitable girl's name. On campaign, he would sometimes worry about the choice of Robb as an eldest son's name - what if Robert were defeated, and both of them killed? Although he didn't know her well, he thought Catelyn would have the good sense not to name their child after a vanquished rebel. He hoped she wouldn't have to choose between honouring his wishes and the safety of their family.

The weather kept fair for the first part of their journey, but as they passed out of Dorne and into the Reach, the rains began. Wylla arranged a light cover over the baby's carrier to shield its face from the weather, but there was little they could do for themselves but put up with it. On good nights, they found an inn to rest at, someplace where they'd have a few hours to be dry and warm, but there wasn't always such a convenient stopping-place. Ned would build them a little shelter under the trees on those nights to keep them out of the worst of it, and the fire, once he managed to light it, helped, but their clothing never had a chance to dry completely, always staying clammy and damp even as it steamed in the heat from the flames. Wylla wasn't the sort to complain, or at least not about matters beyond anyone's control, but Ned thought even she seemed cross by the fifth day without a break in the weather.

They were fording the River Mander, east of Bitterbridge. The hard rains had turned the usually slow-flowing river into a cataract, and what should have been an easy crossing was unexpectedly treacherous. Ned went first, to pick out the best path across the rocky river bottom, and Wylla and the baby followed. He barely heard her scream over the sound of the rushing water - it was the noise the donkey made that drew his attention instead. The beast's front feet must have slipped and it fell over, thrashing wildly and pitching both the nurse and her charge into the river. For one dreadful moment, over which he would long reproach himself afterwards, Ned thought that maybe it would be for the best... But he couldn't let them go so easily - he had promised Lyanna, and the nameless child was all that was left of her, and this poor woman did not deserve such a cruel fate either. He plunged into the water to rescue them. It was up to his chest, which would mean it was near Wylla's head. He could see her struggling to hold the baby up, keeping it out of the water as much as she was able. By the time he reached them, she had caught up against a rock and almost managed to get her feet under her, but still she clung to him desperately and let him drag her to the bank. The baby was shrieking, but seemed unharmed by its sudden dunking.

Wylla sat huddled on the shore while Ned retrieved their mounts, who had both made it to the other side more easily without their riders. By the time he returned to where he'd left her, she had the child nursing, even though she herself was shivering with shock and cold. "We have to get you dry," Ned told her. "I'll get a fire started." He wrapped her in his own cloak, though it was soaked too, thinking that the extra weight of wool might help warm her.

The rain started again before he could get the fire lit, at least enough to keep him from being able to strike a spark that would catch. He cursed under his breath in frustration, and went back to where Wylla sat. "Do you think you can keep going? We might find an inn..."

"I'm not getting back on that stupid ass," she said firmly. "Not today, at least. We'll stop here."

"All right. Come under the trees, at least, and I'll keep trying." Beneath the shelter of the branches, at least she was out of the rain and wind. Her face was unusually pale, and she was still shivering. Ned was worried about her, more than he was about the child, who seemed to have calmed down and settled into his usual quiet watchfulness. "I'll teach you how to build a fire when you're older," he murmured to the baby boy, "you'll be glad of it one day." At last he managed to get a small, smouldering blaze lit, and felt for a moment a greater sense of victory than he had in any battle.

He took his tent from the pack on his horse and spread it quickly over some low branches, weighting the corners down with stones, to give them some shelter. Spreading their blankets on the ground, he beckoned for her to come in, making sure she took the seat closer to the meagre fire. She moved there as if in a daze. "You should get the baby dried off," he reminded her gently, and that seemed to bring her back to herself.

"Of course, I know that," she snapped, but she smiled at him to show she wasn't angry. She busied herself with the child, unwrapping its sodden cloths and rubbing it briskly with her hands to bring the colour back into its legs, which were mottled purple and white. The child cried again under the unaccustomed treatment, only settling when she finally re-wrapped it and put it to her breast.

Ned looked away, feeling like an intruder. "He doesn't cry much," he said, for the sake of having something to say.

"He's a quiet one," she agreed. "None of mine were this quiet."

It had only occurred to him in the vaguest possible way that she would have children of her own, but of course she must have if she was a nurse. "Where are they?"

"My eldest girl serves as a maid at Starfall. She's nearly nine. My younger girl, she's four, is staying with my sister while I'm away." She hesitated a moment. "My boy's dead. He took a fever before he was half a year old."

"I'm sorry," he said, wishing he hadn't asked.

She shrugged. "It's the way of things, isn't it. And if he'd lived, I wouldn't have been able to nurse this poor little fellow, and where would he have been then?" She looked down at the baby in her arms, who had fallen asleep on the breast. Taking him off gently, she laid him down. Ned watched the child's mouth continue to move for a moment, as if seeking what had been stolen away from him, and then settle into a peaceful slackness.

Ned glanced sidelong at Wylla. He hadn't given much thought to her age, except insofar as he knew she was older than he was. If anyone had asked, he might have guessed she was drawing close to thirty, but in the shadows of their makeshift tent she looked more youthful. She might only be a year or two older than him, he thought, if she'd had her first child young. He looked away again. "Your husband...?" He thought better of the question before he'd finished asking it, but she answered anyway.

"My man was a soldier." He didn't have to ask on whose side - the Dornishmen had fought for the Targaryens. "He never came back from the war. I heard from some who did that he fell at the Trident."

Ned felt he ought to apologize for that as well, but it seemed even more awkward, so he kept silent. He hoped he hadn't killed her husband personally, even though he knew the odds were slim - there had been some forty thousand soldiers from Dorne and the Reach at the Trident, and he couldn't have slain more than twenty or so himself. He wondered for the first time if Wylla hated him for what he'd done, but couldn't bring himself to ask. If she did, she concealed it well. He cleared his throat. "You ought to get yourself dried too, if you can."

She nodded and shrugged off his cloak, and then her own as well. The tips of her breasts peeked out from the slits in the front of her gown, nipples dark against pale skin. Ned swallowed, hard. "I'll give you some privacy," he said, moving to crawl out of the tent.

"Don't go out in the rain on my account," she said as she unlaced her gown.

"No, it's fine," he told her hastily. "I have to, ah, go behind a tree anyhow." He left before she could say anything further, and took far more time than was needed over the necessary business, gathering some fallen wood before dark fell completely and feeding the fire, hoping to avoid further embarrassment.

When he finally returned, she was wrapped in the drier of the two blankets. He suspected she had nothing on underneath - her bare feet stuck out from the edge. Her honey-brown hair, beginning to curl as it dried, hung loose around her face, making her appear almost a maiden again. "Gods," he muttered, trying not to look at her too closely. He wondered if he could just feign sleep, or whether she would see through such a feeble pretense.

"It's all right," she told him calmly. "I can tell you're nervous, but you don't have to worry. I'll take care of everything."

Ned let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Still not looking at her, he said, "That's not necessary."

Wylla gave a short laugh. "Not many lords - or many men at all - would say as much. To hear them tell it, it's _always_ necessary. If they don't just beat you and take what they want, they'll whine about how badly it aches until you give in just to shut them up..."

Ned blushed. "I would never dream..."

"No, you're not like that, I can tell. I think you'd be kind." She edged closer. "That's why I'm making the offer in the first place. I was surprised you didn't ask earlier, truth be told."

"I have a wife," he said quietly, looking away. "She's very beautiful." He tried to conjure up Catelyn's face in his memory and found it alarmingly hazy. He had known her for only a few short weeks - less time, he realized, than he had known Wylla, now - but he had sworn his oath to Catelyn, and she was bearing his child, might already have given birth for all he knew. And yet he could barely remember her face. He felt like the worst husband in the world.

"Well, so do most men have wives, even beautiful ones from time to time. Doesn't stop them, unless they get caught. Not even then, for some of them." She sounded as though she spoke from bitter experience.

He shook his head. "I will have to present her with a terrible shock" - he glanced at the baby, still sleeping, serenely unaware of the future that awaited it - "but I have no wish to hurt her more than necessary."

"You're going to tell her he's yours, I take it." He nodded, unable to say the words as of yet. "Then if she cares about you, she'll be hurt, dishonoured, no matter what you say. She'll assume you've betrayed her, and you'll have to make her believe it."

"I know," said Ned miserably. "And I'm terrible at lying."

"Don't lie, then," she suggested, putting her hand atop his. "If you're going to suffer for something she thinks you've done, you should at least get a little pleasure into the bargain."

Ned's throat felt too tight, his mouth dry, and, suddenly, his cock hard as steel. There had been no one since he'd left Catelyn, of course, and he'd had few enough opportunities even to sate himself by hand in the hectic, dangerous months that had followed. He couldn't even remember the last time. But he'd been able to put those needs aside until now, until a woman he hardly knew offered herself to him out of kindness. "I... I can't..." he tried to croak, but before he could finish, Wylla had gotten up onto her knees so she could reach to kiss him.

Ned groaned against her mouth in something like pain, but couldn't quite make himself push her away. He was mortified by this display of weakness on his part, and yet unable to overcome it. The blanket fell aside, revealing that his suspicions had been correct - she was bare-skinned beneath it. Almost involuntarily, he sought out her soft, rounded breast, cupping it lightly until she laid her hand over his, making him squeeze her tighter. "I know you're kind," she whispered, "but you don't have to be so bleeding gentle with me."

Her skillful fingers had his breeches opened before he even fully realized what she was doing. She gripped his cock firmly, which drew a moan from his lips, and pressed one small hand against his chest to make him lie back. "Let me," she said, and brought her mouth to the tip of his manhood, teasing him with her tongue in a way that raised gooseflesh on his arms. "Does your beautiful wife do this for you?" she asked, a smile on her lips.

"Don't speak of her," Ned pleaded more than commanded. It had seemed so urgent that he get Catelyn with child that they had done nothing in their short time together that could not lead to conception, but he was unwilling to share that fact with Wylla. "Just... oh please, yes, that," he gasped as her lips closed around him again, sucking him swiftly and expertly to the brink but drawing back just before he fell.

He thought he might have whimpered when she suddenly stopped, but she simply smiled and slid up to lie beside him. "Not so fast," she murmured. "I want your mouth on me now." She saw the apprehensive look on his face and interpreted it correctly. "You've never done that before, have you."

Ned felt his face burning. "I don't think..."

"It's simple," she reassured him. "You'll do fine." And without further discussion, she slid her leg over him until she was straddling his upper chest. Although full night had long since fallen, he could make out the shadows of soft curls that covered her mound, the glint of firelight on wetness between parted lips, and could smell the hot salt-slickness of her. As if by instinct, he gripped her by the arse, none too gently, and pulled her forward with a sharp jerk so that she knelt over his mouth. His first efforts were too tentative, but with her encouragement, delivered in gasps and little movements rather than words, he soon found the right spots, the perfect motions that would make her hips twist against him, soaking his beard with her eager wetness. He feared the noise she made when she climaxed might wake the baby, but thankfully it slept soundly through the disruption.

Wylla slumped down beside him, breathing hard, eyes closed. "That was lovely," she told him when she could speak. "If you hurry up and fuck me, I think I could do that again." That was enough encouragement for Ned, who rolled atop her, pinning her down with strong arms. She laughed, pretending to struggle even as she opened her thighs and guided him with a smooth raising of her hips. He slid into her so easily, and he couldn't help but be reminded of his first night with Catelyn, when it had been so difficult, and he'd had to go slowly to keep from hurting her. Wylla didn't ask him to slow down, and when she moaned, he could tell it wasn't from pain.

He brought his hand to one of her breasts, small but full, teasing with his thumb the puckered jut of her nipple , glimpsed so many times but never seen clearly until now. In the firelight, it shone - wet with milk, he realized. Tentatively, he brought his lips to it, kissing its dark tip, tasting the lingering sweetness there. That single kiss felt to him like more of a betrayal than anything else he'd done thus far. But she was urging him on, faster, and he had no time for kisses or worries, all those thoughts driven from his head by her insistent movements, the close, clutching grip of her shuddering around him, the smile of pleasure on her face.

Ned knew he was getting close, too close. At the last second, he pulled back with a ragged cry, spilling onto her legs, the blanket, in swift, clumsy pulses. He prayed he'd gotten out in time, even though part of him regretted not being able to finish inside her. "I'm sorry," he gasped.

"You didn't have to do that," she told him, but not unkindly.

Ned frowned. "I'm not going to give you a bastard to raise."

"There's small worry of that," Wylla said as she wiped her legs off with the edge of the blanket. "Not while I'm nursing, at least. My courses haven't come back yet."

"Oh," said Ned, who had never had to think about such matters before. Despite the chill air, he felt feverish, sweat-soaked. He rose and stepped out of the tent for a moment, letting the cool rain wash over him as it spilled down from the branches above, and told himself that it would not happen again.

When he returned, Wylla had pulled her shift on again, braided her hair loosely, and was wrapped up in one of the blankets, already dozing. Ned wished he could fall asleep so easily. He was still restless when the baby stirred a few hours later. Wylla rose to feed it, but he closed his eyes and hoped she wouldn't notice he was still awake. If she did, she said nothing. And at last, as she sang under her breath to the child, Ned finally slipped into an anxious sleep.

Despite his promise to himself, it did happen again, half a dozen more times in the two weeks before they reached King's Landing. Each time Ned would regret it afterwards, deeply ashamed of himself for not being strong enough to resist his base urges or her enticements. One night when they stopped at an inn, the keeper referred to Wylla as his wife, and Ned didn't correct the man. He spent the whole night wakeful, guilt tying dreadful knots in his stomach. It would have to end well before they reached Winterfell, he knew, or Catelyn would surely guess. He was beginning to worry that she would guess anyway, once she saw Wylla, and that she would make life hard for the servant woman.

Wylla seemed more worried about other matters, however. "Why have you not named the child yet?" she asked one night. "It's ill luck, as though you don't expect him to live." She called him _sweetling_ or _pup_ when she had to call him anything, but of course that wouldn't do forever.

"I don't know what to call him," Ned admitted.

"He's supposed to be yours - you could call him after yourself, or after your father."

Ned shook his head. He couldn't bring himself to give one of the old Stark names - Rickard, Benjen, Brandon - to a Snow, no matter how much the boy might look like one of the family. He'd thought of Lyam, perhaps, to honour Lyanna, but was afraid it would be too obvious. "I can't," he said. "It just doesn't feel right."

"Well, what about a friend, then? Or, if not your true father, then a man who was like a father to you - as you'll be to him."

Ned thought then of Jon Arryn. A decent, upstanding man, wedded to his wife's sister, soon to be Robert's Hand. _Jon._ It was a good name, he decided. There had even been a Jon Stark once, a King in the North in the long ages past, though not one of the most famous. It would do. "Jon," he said. "I'll call him Jon."

Wylla considered it for a moment, then nodded in approval. "It suits him," she said, brushing the baby's thick hair back from his brow. "Who will you say was his mother, when they ask you?"

"I'll not tell them anything, if I can avoid it." _Too many lies already._

"Well, if you find you must tell someone, you can use my name if you wish. I'm as close to a mother as the poor little pup has, after all."

Ned had already decided he would never tell Catelyn, no matter how much she might ask, but he nodded nevertheless, to please her.

On the morrow they rode into King's Landing. It had barely begun to recover from the Sack, and still bore many scars. Barricades hastily built in the streets had not been fully cleared away yet; the gutters were choked with refuse; empty shells of burned buildings littered the skyline. The smell of the city, usually pungent anyway, was overpowered by a persistent stink of smoke and rotting corpses, hastily buried if they were lucky, left to rot where they fell if they were not. Wylla brought little Jon around to the front so she could hold him more closely, as if trying to shelter him from the terrible sights, while Ned just shuddered and tried not to look down too much.

"Spare a coin for a wounded soldier, ser?" Ned didn't know what made him turn - he'd seen so many beggars on the roads of late that they'd almost become invisible to him. Perhaps it was the man's claim to be a soldier, though there were far too many of those on the roads as well. He certainly looked the part - tall and gaunt, but obviously once strong. His left leg was missing from the knee down, and he leaned on a poorly-carved crutch. Ned was about to refuse him when he heard Wylla gasp and all but jump off her donkey.

"Steffyn!"

The beggar turned, and a shocked smile spread over his face. "Wylla, gods be praised! And the baby, too!" His moment of joy at seeing her quickly turned to wariness, however, when he looked back at Ned. "Who is _he_?"

Wylla bit her lip. "It's not our son, Steff, it's his. The mother died in childbed, and I'm nursing him." Ned noticed she avoided giving his name - no doubt a wise decision, given the tensions that still remained between the two sides of the war. "But you're alive," she said with wonder, touching his face.

"Barely," he replied. "I'm sorry I hadn't made it home yet, but…" He nodded in the direction of his missing leg. "The children, where are they?"

"Home with Perra, but…" Her face twisted with naked emotion in a way Ned hadn't seen before. "Oh, Steff, Donnell took ill, and... and he's gone, and now I've got to travel so far away from the girls…" She leaned against her husband, quiet sobs racking her body. Ned hated himself in that moment, hated himself for thoughtlessly removing her from her family, for the pleasure he'd taken from her, all the while not being able to see the pain she held hidden.

With one arm around his wife, Steffyn looked angrily up at Ned, as if about to speak, but Ned stopped him before he could begin. "Of course you'll return home together, if that's your wish. I shall pay the cost of your travel."

Wylla looked up, her face red and blotched with tears. "But who'll care for Jon then? I can't just leave him."

Ned's respect for her, already high, rose still further. "Thank you for thinking of him, but I can surely find another wetnurse here, if anywhere," he said. It came out more stiffly than he would have liked, but her husband's still-suspicious eyes on him made him feel it was safer to be formal.

"Oh... of course," Wylla said, dabbing at her eyes. "You've been so... so very kind. Do you think... could you hold him while I help Steffyn onto the donkey?"

Ned took Jon gingerly in his arms as Wylla bullied her husband into riding (over his strenuous protests). He'd hardly held the baby before - or, indeed, any baby, at least not since Benjen was small - and was relieved that he didn't immediately burst into tears, but instead looked up at him with large, solemn eyes and smiled briefly. Mayhap it was only gas, but still, Ned could hardly believe the surge of affection he felt for the little fellow. He wondered if it would feel the same when he held his own sons, or stronger.

He tried to pay Wylla twice the amount they'd agreed to, but she refused to accept a single coin more. "I haven't earned it," she told him with a stern look. He realized only then that she thought he was trying to recompense her for her sex, and felt foolish for not having seen how it would look to her - or to her husband. Instead he settled for buying them a good, solid wagon they could hitch the donkey to, to make the ride back to Dorne easier for both of them. Steffyn accepted this gift grudgingly, but he thought that Wylla was secretly pleased with his ingenuity.

There was no opportunity for a proper farewell, but perhaps that was for the best. She gave Jon a kiss on the forehead, though, and told Ned to watch over him well. The last time he saw Wylla, she was cursing at the donkey, which balked at its new harness, and bickering companionably with her husband over which was the best route out of the city. He stood at the keep's gate and watched them go until they were safely out of sight, thinking she might look back, but she never did.

"Who's she?" Robert asked, clapping one heavy hand on his shoulder. "You seem quite taken with her."

"Her name's Wylla," Ned told him. "Jon's wetnurse."

"Wetnurse, eh?" Robert's insinuating tone told Ned he'd already assumed she was more than that. He did nothing to dissuade him - it was far safer for the child that Robert believe him to be a base-born by-blow of his, rather than what he truly was. "Pretty, was she?"

Ned thought of her soft brown hair curling as it dried, of the scattered freckles on the bridge of her nose, of her eager smile when he entered her. "I suppose so."

"Too bad she couldn't stay longer, I'd have liked to meet the woman who could break through that cold Northern shell of yours."

"It's better that she go."

"Oh, no doubt. There'll be others, after all." He laughed, and Ned forced a smile back, knowing there would be no others like her.

The new wetnurse he engaged was a thick-necked Northern woman with a prominent wart on her upper lip and breasts that hung down to her waist. Though she had near on two decades of experience in the trade, she was also the talkative type, and so Ned had few qualms about sending her to Winterfell under the protection of a group of his soldiers while he remained in King's Landing long enough for Robert's coronation. He worried about what Catelyn would think in the event that she arrived in Winterfell before he did, and wondered whether to send her a raven with a letter to explain, but finally decided it would be better to tell her in person. He did, however, feel an unexpected pang at letting Jon go, and worried about the boy each night until he finally saw him again.


End file.
